by Lucy Banks
“Aunt, I’m so glad to see you again,” Agnes says, moving forward. She, like the ghost, is amazed that the old woman has remained so long. Normally, they vanish long before this.
“Agnes?”
“Yes, it’s me, don’t worry, Aunt Esme, everything is—”
A frown shadows the hollowed remnants of her aunt’s face. “Agnes, you did a terrible thing.”
Agnes’s expression crumbles.
Her aunt extends her hands, and to the ghost’s horror, he realises that she is warding Agnes away, as though frightened of her. “You did an unforgivable thing, my girl. How could you do that? How could you?”
And then, just like that, she is gone. One moment there, finger poised in accusation, the next, vanished. Now that she has departed, the ghost is aware of the living women again, their quiet sobs filling the room. He looks across to Agnes and sees the sparkle of a tear upon her cheek.
“Agnes?” His voice wavers, uncertain.
She shakes her head, then flees from the caravan; the air rippling in her wake like a restless mirage.
He spends the rest of the day searching for her, ignoring the commotion that surrounds him; the rustle of heavy fabric as the tents are assembled, the continual thud of hammer on peg. The circus men seem to shout ceaselessly through the day, a tirade of stoic camaraderie and hoarse, jocular insults, but he scarcely notices. Finally, he concludes that wherever Agnes may be, she doesn’t want to be found, or at least, not at this moment.
At around lunchtime, Aunt Esme’s corpse is carried from the caravan by two men, one weeping openly. It seems that Agnes’s aunt was a respected member of the circus, and several people stop their work and observe, solemn-faced, as she is taken to a large open cart, over to the other side of the field. He wonders what they will do with her body. Do circus folk have funerals? Will they take her to a local church for burial, or do they have their own ways of disposing of her?
For the first time, he finds himself thinking about Agnes’s living body, or at least, the remains of it. How old must it be now? he wonders. More morbidly, he wonders what state it must be; how forcefully the worms have done their work. When did she even die? He can’t remember the date, but doesn’t believe it was that long ago. But who knows? The years have started to bleed into one another, and it is difficult to keep track of the passage of time.
And mine, of course. He feels strangely removed from the thought of his old psychical form. After all, it is nothing, only an empty vessel to house what he is now. All those times I peered into the looking glass and believed I was seeing myself, he thinks, ruefully easing aside as a crowd of workers set about erecting another tent. And all I was seeing was an artful arrangement of cells and fluid, nothing more.
As the sun sets and the crowds start to arrive, he moves to another part of the field. It is difficult to bear the volume and vitality of so many people, and their exuberance is draining. Also, he doesn’t like remaining here. He’s never liked circuses, even in the days when he used to hover close to Agnes, back when she’d been alive. They leave him unsettled.
Finally, Agnes finds him, long after the people have surged into the big top to watch the show. She appears at his side, as the muffled calliope plays on, somewhere within the bowels of the tent. The frenetic notes, skating upwards and downwards like racing rodents, nettle him, and he wishes for quiet, a world without such endless motion and noise.
“How are you?” he asks, scarcely daring to look at her.
The silence is answer enough.
“They took your aunt’s body away,” he offers.
“Yes, I know.”
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. The ghost smiles ruefully. He forgets there are houses just beyond this park, that they are still in the heart of the city, even though the surrounding trees blot out most of the evidence.
“Agnes,” he begins, falteringly, “your aunt didn’t mean what she said.”
She shakes her head. “I think she did.”
“It was just the shock of seeing you again. She blurted the first thing that came to mind, then—”
“—no, she meant it.” The severity of her voice forbids him to press the issue. Agnes waits, surveying the silhouettes of the neighbouring beeches, before adding, “She was right, of course.”
“That’s not true.” He’s quick to jump to her defence, because he remembers how it was for her, how unendurable life had become whilst she was alive.
“It is true. It’s considered an unforgivable sin by my people.”
The ghost nods reluctantly. He understands that travelling folk are steeped in deep-rooted beliefs, and that their philosophies are often unshakeable. Staying with them in the past taught him that.
“But you were a good niece,” he guesses, wishing he had more than words to comfort her.
“Was I?” She shakes her head. “I always felt trapped with her; she must have known that. You realised it, when you first found me. It was one of the first things you said. You don’t belong here. This place is too small for you.”
He has no memory of this, but nods all the same. “Do you want to leave?” he asks. There’s nothing left for her now, not after this; only a scattering of distant cousins, a couple of aunts and uncles who are equally as infirm as her Esme.
Agnes sighs. The roar of the crowd filters through the thick fabric of the big top, like a crashing wave on a distant shore.
“Aunt Esme was the only one who was ever kind to me,” she says, and her eyes grow dim.
He remembers her talking about Aunt Esme before, how she’d raised Agnes after the death of her mother. Agnes had laughed when she’d told him, at the irony, of how she might have been a trapeze artist like her parents, had fate not stepped in and made her the protégée of the Fortune Teller instead.
However, she had a natural talent for reading people, just as her aunt had. It ran in their family, she’d told him, the knack of looking past a person’s face and seeing their path, laid out before them like an unfurling ribbon of inevitability. She’d favoured the tarot cards, as Aunt Esme had done before her.
Even now, in death, Agnes still has that ability to read those around her. And she knows more about the ghost than he is comfortable with, especially now his memory is less reliable. He suspects she may know more about him than he does himself.
“But surely,” he continues, trying to draw her attention back to the present, “there’s nothing to hold you here now?” In all honesty, he’d be pleased to move on from the circus. They’ve been here too long, and he yearns for something different; new people, a new way of life. He needs something to tether himself to; to stop himself from drifting.
She shrugs, reaching to her shoulder and drawing the mists of her shawl across herself. A half-remembered gesture, no doubt, from her living days. He finds himself doing similar actions, from time to time. Shivering against a breeze, even though he can no longer feel it. Stroking his stomach, even though there’s no stomach there to touch anymore, only the transparent echo of what once was.
“What do you remember about the first time you came to me?” she asks.
He says nothing.
“I was staring at the candle,” she says, filling the silence. “I stared for so long that I couldn’t see anything else. It must have been a trance, I think, and that was how I was able to hear you. You found me, one night after Ernst had beaten me badly. At first, I thought I was imagining you. Then I wondered if you were the ghost of one of my ancestors.” She laughs, a bitter sound. “That’s how desperate I was for someone to protect me. Pathetic, I suppose.”
“It’s not pathetic to seek comfort from others.”
“A living person, perhaps. But a ghost?” Her gaze slides to meet his. “You became my only friend, and you weren’t alive. I couldn’t even touch you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? It wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”
He doesn’t reply, sensing tha
t she is wrong. He is partially to blame for it, he is certain.
“How long do you think we can go on like this?” Agnes asks eventually, almost conversationally.
He ponders. “I don’t know.”
“I mean,” she continues, shimmering faintly in the dim light, “when will it be our turn? To disappear, as the other spirits do? Why are we still here?”
Ah, he thinks. The big question. An issue they skirt around regularly, too nervous to explore the answer. Why do most ghosts vanish immediately, often with an expression of relief or contentment on their faces? Even those who linger for a while tend to disappear eventually. Only the tortured ones, the sad, twisted figures in lonely places; only those poor souls remain. So, we must be like them. “What do you think?” he asks.
Her aunt’s death has made her fearless; freed her tongue. “I think we are cursed.”
The word makes him shudder.
“We’re not cursed,” he reassures her, unconvincingly.
“Why do you dismiss the idea so quickly?”
“Because…” He falters, looks to the sky for inspiration. A flock of swifts duck and weave in the gloaming light, and he envies their freedom. “Because we’ve done nothing to be cursed for,” he concludes, then catches her eye. Or at least, I haven’t, he thinks, then feels guilty to think such a thing.
“Do you know,” she says, as they start to drift back to the circus tent, “I’ve never hated Ernst. Not once. And what I did…”
“Yes?”
“That was never about hatred. I didn’t do it for revenge.”
He nods. He knows this to be true, because he was there; though not in the final moments. Had he been, he would have done everything in his power to stop her. “I know,” he agrees. “Revenge has never been in your heart.” He wishes he could hold her for a moment, do anything to ease her anxiety. “You are a good person.” A better person than I ever was, he finishes silently.
“Are Ernst’s family still here?” He’d thought it indelicate to enquire before, but now that Agnes has broached the subject, it seems acceptable.
She nods. “Not that I ventured too close. A part of me was terrified that his father would sense me. Ivan never liked me. He thought I was weak. I think he wanted Ernst to marry Greta, but he’d already arranged the betrothal with my father, years before.” Her eyes wrinkle; a trace of her old humour returning. “Everyone wanted their boys to marry Greta. She married Bernard instead; the clown. Do you remember him?”
“I think I remember Greta,” The ghost murmurs, straining his mind back to those times. A big-boned, full-lipped girl, he seems to recollect. Sensuous, broad-jawed, with a laugh like an emptying drain. “Didn’t she used to dance with the horses?”
“Yes, standing on their backs, with her red and lilac leotard.” Agnes smiles. “She was a sight. I always liked her, despite everything.”
“Why don’t you visit Ernst’s father, before we leave?” he suggests. “It might bring you some peace.”
She considers, then shakes her head. “No. Ivan will bring me nothing. That’s all he ever did.”
Later, when the show is finished and the crowds have trickled to just a few remaining people, the ghost leaves Agnes; understanding her need to be alone, to take the time to bid this place a final farewell. It was her life, but now she has a new life, such that it is, and this circus can no longer provide for her.
He wanders past the smaller tents; the various hastily erected stages with their signs, promising all manner of exotic sights. The Incredible Bearded Woman of Burma. The Most Tattooed Man in the World. It makes him smile, inwardly. He knows Eleanor would have loved all of this; the intoxicating scents, the clanging music, the feel of so much anticipation and excitement.
A blurred memory stirs him; of an evening at the circus; he, his wife, and Arthur. Elephants, he remembers. Lions. A man, bending a bar of metal with his teeth. For some reason, the thought of it makes him frown.
The Hanged Man, he thinks again, then remembers Aunt Esme, pointing an accusing finger at Agnes, before dissolving into nothingness. The thought makes him freeze, strain to recollect more, but the memory refuses to be grasped too tightly. Rather, it remains elusively distant, teasing him, just beyond his reach.
Agnes finds him in the end, as she always seems to be able to do.
“Are you ready?” she asks, eyes shining against the brash light of the surrounding oil lamps.
“I should be asking you that question.” He gestures to it all, inviting her to look at it one last time; the soaring mountain of the big top behind them, the circus folk, still milling around, chatting, relaxing after another hard night’s work. “Are you ready to leave all of this?”
Her form quivers in the air, before solidifying. “Yes.” The answer is resolute, final. She’s given thought to this, he realises. The decision has not come lightly. “Besides,” she says, almost carelessly, “they will be packing up and leaving soon, anyway. As they always do.”
“Where will we go now?” he asks, attempting to sound light-hearted, even though he doesn’t feel it. “After all, it is a new century. The world is our oyster.”
She laughs. “We cannot leave London. We are chained here, for better or for worse.”
“Perhaps we should seek out happier experiences.” Maybe that is what we need, he thinks, to move forward. Perhaps it’s our misery that tethers us here, weighing us down like ballast.
“We really should.” Agnes’s expression lights up with sudden fierceness; a glimpse of the beauty she once was, back when she had skin to be beautiful in. But her words sound hollow to him, and he knows that she is not convinced.
“Though I need to keep searching for my Eleanor,” he reminds her.
“Really?” She darkens. “We cannot keep doing this, you said so yourself.”
Did I? Perhaps that is true, though he cannot recollect it.
“Yes, you said it was better not to think on it. You must remember that.”
He says nothing, and they fall into step with one another, leaving the circus for the final time. But all the while, the same words run through his head, loud and chiming as a church bell. I will never stop searching for Eleanor. Never.
If he stops, he will have no purpose. So, he must carry on. Because love is all he has left, really. And if he gives up on that, he loses his hold on the only thing that matters anymore.
FIFTEEN
— 1878 —
THE AIR HAD been as thick as syrup all afternoon, the ominous roll of thunder cutting through the hubbub of the streets outside. It hadn’t put any of us clerks off our work, of course; we were paid to concentrate and ensure the figures stacked up, regardless of what was going on around us. However, when Mr Harrison announced that it was five o’clock, I was relieved. Our tiny office was oppressive on days like this, especially with the windows sealed shut.
I bid my colleagues farewell for the day, then stepped outside, just as the first fat drops of rain started to fall. Fortunately, I’d come prepared that morning with my umbrella, which I gladly pulled up over my head, saving my hat from a soaking.
Berner Street was unusually quiet, most likely because of the inclement weather; which was exactly as I liked it. Although it was a somewhat downtrodden area, the pavements were pleasantly wide, and the road blissfully empty. Sometimes, in moments like this, it even felt less like London, and more like the peaceful streets of my childhood.
The quiet also gave me the opportunity to brood on Mr Harrison’s words regarding my promotion. Always, it seemed just around the corner, but certain company setbacks were preventing it, all the more frustrating given Eleanor’s latest spate of spending, which was threatening the bedrock of our meagre savings. This morning, the latest word had been that they were ‘discussing’ the option of promoting me to senior clerk, a position I’d been yearning after for over a year now. How I wished they would just get on with their decision, rather than drawing it out in this painful
, protracted fashion; especially given my concerns about our dwindling funds.
Still, if spending gave Eleanor pleasure, how could I deny her? In all honesty, the purchase of a new purse or dress had never seemed like a cause for excitement to me, but then, I was not a female, and I acknowledged it may be different for them.
Sure enough, as I arrived home, the first thing I noted was the large hatbox, sitting beside our sofa, decorated ostentatiously with gold rope and fringing. Scarcely had I shaken my umbrella out and placed it by the door, than Eleanor had rushed down the stairs, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She’d had an enjoyable day, I could tell.
“There you are!” she chorused, helping me out of my jacket and placing a kiss on my cheek. “I was worried you’d get soaked to the skin!”
I kissed her back, glad to see her healthy glow. She was back to her old self again, thanks largely to Arthur’s and my efforts to keep her entertained. I’d never been out so often in all my life, but it was worth the additional expenditure, just to see her like this.
“I remembered to go prepared,” I said, pointing to the dripping umbrella, then gestured to the hatbox. “I presume you didn’t get wet whilst you were out shopping, then?”
Eleanor’s face flushed, and a hint of defensiveness crept into her expression. “No, I was perfectly dry. And I had a wonderful time. I met with Genevieve on Regent Street; do you remember Genevieve? She used to live near me when I was a girl. She’s married exceptionally well; her husband is a—”
“—Lucky Genevieve,” I interrupted, trying not to feel irritated. “And poor you, getting stuck with a lowly clerk, eh?”
Eleanor laughed. “Oh dear, don’t say it like that! You earn an honest living, and that is all that matters. Guess who else I happened to see, though? You’ll never guess.”
I sighed. “May I sit down first, my dear? It’s been a long day.”
“You can sit down and guess at the same time, can’t you?”
I could see her determination, etched in every muscle of her face. Very well, I thought with a smile. If this is the game she wants, she shall have it. I strode to the sofa and kicked off my shoes, resting my feet upon the footrest. “Let me see,” I began, patting the sofa for her to join me. “You saw Father Christmas?”
